The Long Dark Knight of the Soul
by Neftzer
Summary: A citation in the London Times takes a J.D. Salinger  by way of the 12th Century -like recluse by surprise. #3 of 6.2 in the "We Are 2011" fic series, from LJ's RH INTERCOMM 2011. Ficlet.


**Title:** The Long Dark Knight of the Soul  
><strong>Author:<strong> LiveJournal ID Nettlestone Nell  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 780  
><strong>Rating:<strong> G  
><strong>CharactersPairings:** Guy, Marian, (Guy/Marian?)  
><strong>SpoilersWarnings:** Season One, Season Two, and my other INTERCOMM 2011 submissions, "_A Bit Too Much_" at 'Treat Much Right', and "Deposed" at 'Society for People Who Are Afraid of Maid Marian". You should read those first. They are deranged, but (thankfully?) brief. Three of 6.2 in the "_We Are 2011_" fic series.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> ['Finally, something that seemed to slightly ruffle her. "No. I have not seen him for...many years."' - from _Deposed_] A citation in the _Times_ takes a J.D. Salinger (by way of the 12th Century)-like recluse by surprise.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> No one can truly own the legend of Robin Hood, but BBC/Tiger Aspect seem to hold rights to this particular iteration.  
><strong>Genre;Category:<strong> Comedy/Angst; Ficlet  
><strong>LiveJournal Community:<strong> Sir Guy Treats YOU Right

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><p><strong>The Long Dark Knight of the Soul<strong>

Friday at the chips shop below his lodgings was always very busy. Besides the persistent smell of frying grease and malt vinegar that constantly barraged his small flat six other days of the week, Fridays brought a louder noise of people; customers who made it harder to imagine himself alone.

Alone, and cloistered, as was his preference.

To help ignore the oncoming bustle he had gone so far as to walk out and buy the day's paper to read.

He noticed, of late, his black leathers inspired fewer stares among the populace than they once had.

He had come across the item among the listed, 'legal notices'; action being taken regarding the question of some of his past deeds. Of course _he_ had not been summoned. No one knew he was here, alone, thinking. Every day, thinking. Thinking over his life.

With the toe of his boot he nudged at a stack of books that grew up from the floor, overdue at the library: How to Live Without Anger, Seven Steps to Being Better Understood, Make Your Self Your First Love, Best Macrobiotic Diets to Combat Depression, and The Secret.

He stared into the empty space immediately in front of his eyes. He could not recall the last time he had spoken to another person conversationally, and without an objective. Something beyond buying the paper, asking a stranger about the next stop on the Tube because he had forgotten his London A to Z.

He was tired of sighing, tired of feeling cross, tired of summoning up images of the past to nourish himself on in the present.

He thought about looking up the Sheriff, but they had not parted well, and he thought himself well-past playing second fiddle to an old master at this point. He was no longer sure he was cut out for the Sheriff's kind of work, anyway.

He thought about Allan. Allan who (before he donned the Gisborne black) had always seemed to be so good at having fun. Acting carefree. Jolly, even. Well, that was certainly a bridge he had burnt.

And last, and always, he thought of Marian. What did she think of all this? Had she even a thought for him over all this time? The notice listed her as being subpoenaed to a coming deposition. What would she have to say about him? Would she defend him? Certainly she knew the truth of the situation better than anyone but himself.

When he _was_ recognized (which was only rarely, anymore) his unfortunate reputation for damsel slaying always seemed to get in the way. How many flats for let had he been turned away from, before finding this one? How many job interviews had he yet to hear back from? And he preferred not to think about the lack of hits his profile, '_Guygis_42_', was getting on Zoosk.

He thought only momentarily about taking the train into The City proper to attend the deposition, perhaps join with Hood's man to try and set the record, once and finally, straight. But they would only want him to talk, and the questions would not end with the simple settling of the facts about their time together in the Holy Land. They would press on (solicitors always did), trying to get him to chat about _Shah Mat_, burning the Hall, letting down Lambert, and how, always how, he could possibly _not_ have known Marian for the Nightwatchman. How he could have ever thought she had had feelings for him.

Watching the plays 'based on'/'inspired by' those years of their lives aired on BBC, he himself had wondered. But these network executives, these 'writers' and producers, _they_ had not been there. _They_ had not seen the way her eyes would see him, actually _see_ him when she stepped close into the shadow of his height. The way that he had been able to bring a smile to her lips, the smile growing larger the more inconsequential the item he brought her as a gift.

They had not understood, not experienced the way she wished to fight for him, to show him how to fight - for the overdue redemption of his soul.

And, as cited in the legal notices, their teleplay "We Are Robin Hood" unmistakably showed, they had no idea whatsoever what had taken place in the Acre sands.

The day grew late. He sighed. Perhaps he would visit the curry cart 'round the corner for his dinner.

He chose to leave his sword and scabbard hanging from the hook on the back of the door. He grabbed a spare umbrella - black - and tossed the _Times_ into the building's recycle bin as he shut the door behind him.

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><p><strong>A:N:<strong> "_We Are 2011_" part four of 6.2 "_Gonna Wash that Man Right Outta My Hair_" has also been posted. 


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